


i have called you by name

by JennaCupcakes



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religion, Suicide mention, finding faith, how many baby queers can fit into aziraphale's heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: It’s 1988 and Aziraphale has never loved God the Almighty more fervently. It’s also 1988, and Aziraphale has never hated organized religion with as burning a passion as he does right now. Or centre-right governing parties. Or the concept of privatized healthcare.Or: the one where God's love is infinite and Crowley calls Aziraphale's bluff.





	i have called you by name

It’s 1988 and Aziraphale has never loved God the Almighty more fervently. It’s also 1988, and Aziraphale has never hated organized religion with as burning a passion as he does right now. Or centre-right governing parties. Or the concept of privatised healthcare. 

He’s at a bar, which has become something of a regularity for him, and which is odd because he never used to be one for bars. Or being social. But this is so much more than being social.

It’s been a rough couple of years. For starters, he hasn’t seen Crowley for five of them. To continue, people who claim to spread the message of God condemn others because of one of Her central tenets – because they choose to love someone. 

Despite the fact that it is early in the evening, the bar is well-frequented. Aziraphale knows the customers by now. He might even begin to consider calling them friends, though that term takes on such a vague meaning considering how short human lifespans are. The walls of the bar are plastered with flags, posters, and graffiti – messages of love that is defiance, something that Aziraphale sympathizes with and can wholeheartedly agree with.

Aziraphale has made himself comfortable in an armchair in the corner of the basement room that houses the bar. The springs of the armchair are worn out, so he sinks deeply into it. From the outside, it looks as if the chair is in the process of swallowing him. On the small table before him, there are magazines and flyers with phone numbers for suicide hotlines. Every time his eyes graze over one of the suicide hotlines, he has to swallow.

“You OK, Azi?”

The kid in front of him – almost twenty-five, but still a kid in Aziraphale’s eyes – leans forward in concern. They have short-cropped hair, an earring dangling from one of their ears. Everybody here knows them as Poppy, which always makes Aziraphale smile when he remembers it. A flower that grows in the most adverse of conditions. Fitting, he thinks.

“I’m alright”, he says, because how can he encompass the horror of an entire decade weighing on him in the span of a conversation? It would take somebody who understands time in another manner, somebody from a different vantage point than Poppy’s. 

Anyway.

The music thumps in the background, something bass-y that, Aziraphale thinks, lacks the subtle beauty of a classical piece. But he understood the appeal of it the first time he saw people in this club dance to it. They could lose themselves in that bass.

“You know, I was thinking about what you told me last week,” Poppy says, “And I was talking to Matt about it. You met him last week, he’s staying on my couch right now.”

They wait for acknowledgement before continuing. Aziraphale remembers Matt. He remembers all of them. Sometimes, in the heavy moments, he wishes he could remember fewer, but most times the love outweighs the pain. He has so, so much love for every single story he hears in this bar.

“Anyway, we were talking, and you know his family kicked him out because they’re religious types, and I don’t think he really heard me. But I was wondering if you could talk to him and… tell him what you told me.” 

Poppy has their hands shoved deep into the pockets of their overall.

“Of course I will!”

Poppy looks relieved. “Oh, that’s great! I can… he’s here somewhere, maybe we can sit together later…”

“I’ll be right here,” Aziraphale says with a smile.

 

* * *

 

Matt and Poppy find him a little bit later. Matt barely seems eighteen, though he has a scowl to add ten years to his age. He’s wearing an old t-shirt Aziraphale has seen on Poppy once, he thinks it’s a band-tee but can never be quite sure because bands change faster than he can keep up. He’d rather remember all the faces and none of the music.

Matt sits down defiantly, arms crossed in front of him. Poppy, in their tall gangly manner, perches on the armrest of the chair next to him.

“Poppy says you talked to them about religion,” Matt says, a challenge in his voice. Aziraphale can imagine what he expects.

“Oh, dear me, no!”, he exclaims. Matt’s frown only deepens.

“I don’t deal in religion,” Aziraphale explains, “Though I love God the Almighty deeply and I wish to spread Her love wherever I go.”

“See?” Poppy suddenly grins brightly, more of a sunflower for a second, “I told you he’s awesome.”

Matt does not seem convinced.

“I know a lot of folks who are awfully sure I’m going to burn in hell for who I am, and for what I’m doing. Said that God had punished Sodom and Gomorrah for sodomy. And that I will be punished, too. So I don’t feel a lot of love from God exactly. 

Aziraphale feels the righteous anger surge up again, but a smiting without a goal will serve no one. He is no angel of vengeance, and he’s never been good at dealing out divine punishment. What he excels in, however, is love. God, how he’s practiced excelling at it these last years.

He quells his anger. He looks at the boy in front of him. He imagines him without the weight of rejection on his shoulders. Underneath the disappointment, the scars of hurt, Aziraphale can see a boy with a brilliant smile that shows slightly crooked teeth. So painfully young.

“Some churches – many churches, in my opinion – are misguided, and don’t teach the true message of God’s love.” Aziraphale leans forward and winks. “Personally, I feel it’s quite presumptuous of them to assume that God’s love knows boundaries, and that they know what those boundaries are. Must be their simple human minds failing to grasp the concept of divine compassion.”

Matt opens his mouth as if to reply, then closes it again. His frown relaxes a bit as he mulls those words over.

“So you’re saying that all those churches are wrong? That can’t be right, can it? The Pope is supposed to be like, God’s spokesman on earth, and he said being gay is a sin!”

“People have used the will of God to justify a great many things. Not all of them were particularly divine.”

“Like the crusades!”, Poppy interjects.

“Like the crusades,” Aziraphale agrees.

“In any case, oftentimes I feel it’s best to let God’s word speak for itself.”

Poppy smiles, because he gave them the same talk the other day. 

“The Lord your God is merciful; the Lord will not abandon or destroy you,” Aziraphale recites, “Deuteronomy 4:31.”

Matt sits very still for a second.

“She is merciful,” Aziraphale reiterates carefully, “She will not abandon or destroy you.”

Matt swallows, hard. Poppy puts a hand on his arm, squeezing softly. Aziraphale looks at the two of them, just one of the iterations of God’s infinite love: neighbourly love. Solidarity.

“I find a lot of people struggling with this idea,” Aziraphale says softly, “But God will forgive us all if only we ask for forgiveness for our sins. And Matthew?”

He knows he has guessed the boy’s full name correctly when he looks up at Aziraphale with wide eyes.

“Loving someone is not a sin. Loving someone is the greatest act in praise of God. Love is the greatest virtue.”

Matt is crying silent tears, welling up unbidden in his eyes. Poppy takes his hand and links it with theirs.

“What you feel is pure, Matthew, not shameful. You love unconditionally. You could teach your parents or your priest a thing or two about divine love.”

Matt laughs, shakily. Aziraphale allows himself a small smile as well. He is rather proud of that line.

“Thank you,” Matt says. He wipes the corners of his eyes. 

“Come on,” Poppy says, their eyes watery but a smile on their face, “Let’s get you a drink, OK?”

 

* * *

 

Much later in the evening, Aziraphale finds himself outside of the bar, smoking a cigarette. Not that he particularly enjoys smoking, or the taste of cigarettes. It’s just a thing to do outside of a bar without looking like one is lurking.

Lurking is the territory of… well. Of demons. No demon in particular, of course.

As if summoned by the quickly suppressed thought of him, Aziraphale’s nose catches a whiff of sulphur. There’s a rustle of clothes in a nearby alley. And then, from the alley, Crowley emerges.

“Slumming it, are we, angel?”

Crowley is wearing black jeans and a black jean jacket, a tie that is too big for him and pilot sunglasses despite the fact that it’s now the middle of the night. He saunters out of the alley and into the light of one of the nearby streetlamps like they had a date. Well, not a date. An appointment, maybe.

Aziraphale wants to say a great many things – like ‘where have you been the last years?’ or ‘I missed you, you bastard!’ – but as is often the case when one has too many things trying to make it out of one’s mouth all at once, the mouth opens but nothing comes out.

“Close that mouth of yours, or I might get ideas.”

That breaks the spell.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims. A little annoyance always does the trick. “Where have you been? And what are you doing here?”

“I missed you too, angel.”

Crowley’s smile is a grin that goes from ear to ear. Personally, Aziraphale finds his sideburns abhorrent, but Crowley always has a way of making bad taste work for him. The final result is always uniquely… Crowley.

“Five years! And now you have the gall to just show up… here!”

Aziraphale feels a surge of protectiveness. “If you even think about messing with these people, Crowley…”

“Relax, relax.” Crowley waves him off. “When have I ever expressed an interest in your… gentlemen’s clubs? No, I’m just here for you, angel.”

And he winks, which Aziraphale considers a smiteable offense in and of itself.

“Well then,” Aziraphale says, “My place or yours?”

“Careful who you say that to, angel,” Crowley grins, “Yours.”

 

* * *

 

The backroom of the bookshop is cosy. Aziraphale tries to ignore the fact that he mostly feels that way when Crowley is in it.

Aziraphale can tell Crowley is feeling placable because the demon brought an Italian wine. Crowley always goes for an Italian when he is feeling conciliatory but doesn’t want to say.

Aziraphale turns on a few of the small lamps, creating a nice warm atmosphere. He looks at the end result with satisfaction. The light flatters Crowley, he thinks.

“So… what have you been up to these last couple of years, angel?”, Crowley asks. He holds the glass of red between his fingers like an American suburban mom ready for a divorce but not ready to admit it quite yet. One of his legs is thrown up over the side of his armchair. The top buttons of his shirt are open, the tie loose around his neck, and the way he’s sitting pulls the shirt apart scandalously. Aziraphale tries hard not to stare.

“You know, I asked you first,” Aziraphale says primly.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I asked you second.”

They stare at each other, at an impasse.

“You’ve spent a lot of time down there at this… club,” Crowley remarks eventually.

“Have you been _watching_ me?” Aziraphale retorts, horrified but also a little flattered.

“A little. I need to know where my adversary is, lest he thwart my evil plans.”

Crowley winks at him. The smug bastard.

Aziraphale leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes. The conversation at the club earlier, all the faces from the last weeks and months he saw and will never see again keep tugging at him, like baggage forgotten to cut loose.

“Yes, I suppose I have,” Aziraphale sighs, “Just… trying to spread God’s love in the places where it’s sparsest.”

“Oh, you’re such a romantic, Aziraphale.”

Crowley says it fondly, but Aziraphale can’t help but feel a little hurt. It’s not like loving every single one of God’s creations is easy. Sometimes they’re horrible, mean-spirited, and selfish, and Aziraphale loves them despite it all, even though a very human part of him feels like they don’t deserve it. Yes, sometimes, he feels all-too human, like when he’s protective of his books or close-minded at a new idea. And sometimes – oh, sometimes. Sometimes he’s the last to arrive at the scene, like a first responder to lost causes. Loving the ones who think the whole world has given up on them. Those hurt the most, if he’s being honest. Those are the ones he loves with every bit of himself he can give (and more) because sometimes he can make a difference. Some do see that it gets better, if they just hold on long enough and reach out. But he also loves the ones who don’t.

That’s the thing about being an angel. Infinite memory. An infinite capacity to remember. A heart, to hold them all.

He says nothing to Crowley. Crowley probably wouldn’t understand, anyway.

“I heard what you said to that kid,” Crowley says, suddenly very still. Aziraphale must have been quiet for too long, or maybe this is what Crowley has been waiting to say all along.

Aziraphale tries to smile it away. “I love all of God’s creation.”

“Yeah, but it’s different when they’ve been scarred and abused by religious nutjobs, isn’t it?” Crowley says, and he’s obscene as ever, but Aziraphale appreciates it. Maybe that’s a reason to keep a demon around – to voice thoughts one secretly has, to keep one from having to say them.

Aziraphale nods. “Her love is just… so big, it’s… it’s ineffable! And then some human comes along and thinks they can understand! It’s preposterous!”

Crowley leans forward, suddenly attentive. “Do you really think that, though?”

“Think? I know it!” Aziraphale exclaims. “I’ve felt it!”

“Yeah, so have I. But not anymore, you know? I think Her love does have an end. She draws the line at the likes of me, right?" 

“Crowley, I…” Aziraphale stutters, comes to a halt. “I…” 

“Hey, it’s alright.” Crowley waves it off. “Demon; comes with the territory. I’m not heartbroken about it. Divine love was nice while it lasted and all, but I chose this. Well, at least I didn’t actively make an effort to the contrary.”

“Crowley…”

It’s like his glasses have been switched out, Aziraphale thinks. Or like the world is the same, but slightly to the left. A new perspective, that’s what this is.

“Do you think God doesn’t love you?” he says. Which is stupid, because that’s basically what Crowley just said.

“I’m a _demon_ , angel,” Crowley says, every syllable clearly enunciated, “We don’t get backstage passes and meet ‘n greets. That ship has sailed for me.”

“But… she made you!” Aziraphale protests. “ _Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart_.”

“Jeremiah 1:5”, Crowley spits, “Don’t quote me the Bible, angel. I’m not a prophet. I’m a _demon_.”

“ _I_ love you,” Aziraphale offers. Several seconds later, his brain catches up.

Which is just as well, because it seems he has struck Crowley dumb, something he has not succeeded in doing in six millennia of each other’s acquaintance.

“ _You_ love me?” Crowley asks, slowly. Drawing out the syllables incredulously. There’s a little smile on his face as if he finds the whole things hilarious, but underneath there’s an urgency that has Aziraphale on the edge of his armchair.

“Well, you know, I mean… God made you, I love all of God’s creation, Bob’s your uncle!”

He’s rambling. This is bad, not least of all because Crowley’s smile is getting wider and wider.

“This isn’t personal, Crowley,” he says, finally.

Which just cracks Crowley up.

“Of course it isn’t,” Crowley says after he has calmed down from his bursts of laughter, exaggeratedly wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

Aziraphale tries again. He is, after all, quite stubborn.

“You are loved, Crowley. By God, and by me. If it was easy, everybody would do it! Even I struggle sometimes. But God’s love is infinite, and therefore, you cannot be excluded from it.”

Crowley turns extraordinarily pale, even for his goth standards. Not that Aziraphale knows what a ‘goth’ is. It’s just a phrase he heard somebody use to describe Crowley once.

“I’m not sure downstairs will be happy to hear that,” Crowley says, his throat dry. He looks very small in that moment. His physical form, which he normally commands with such grace, seems bereft of purpose, his mouth hanging half open.

“Oh, Crowley!”

Aziraphale jumps up from where he is perched on the edge of his armchair and gathers Crowley into a very awkward hug – one, he’s not had much experience hugging and two, Crowley is still lying back in his armchair, all of his limbs slack.

After a heartbeat or two, Crowley tentatively returns the hug.

“Are you sure it’s nothing personal?” he asks, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Oh, Crowley…”

There’s a lot of things Aziraphale wishes he could say in this moment. About familiarity and six thousand years, about how he’s just selfish enough of a bastard to maybe make this a personal thing. While Crowley’s face is still hidden in his shoulder, maybe he could do it. But then Crowley pulls back and Aziraphale sits back down and maybe Crowley’s eyes are a little reddened – and Aziraphale cannot say it. He clears his throat. Plenty of time for that another day.

What he says instead is: “So long as you don’t repent, I can still work against you, of course.”

Crowley lets out a short, barking laugh. “Of course.”

A few years of talking to young, desperate people have taught Aziraphale a thing or two about finding the right words. He knows when he has found them, for once, and when he hasn’t quite gotten them right. This is one of the latter times.

He gives Crowley one of the smiles that show his fondness. Before he can find the strength to say it in words, he will say it in deeds, as God has taught him. He puts a hand on Crowley’s.

“Thank you for the wine, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here are some links that inspired me in writing this fic: 
> 
> https://hannah-belle-lee.tumblr.com/post/147628823542/out-of-all-the-things-ive-received-at-pride
> 
> https://queertheology.tumblr.com/
> 
> https://queertheology.tumblr.com/post/165566159002/building-a-bible-based-faith-that-isnt-terrible
> 
> Fic title is from Isaiah 43:1.
> 
> Any theological inconsistencies, misinterpretations and such remain my own. They were simply the first time I, a small-town European Catholic raised kid, saw a possibility of uniting my gender/sexuality and faith. 
> 
> Lastly, let me just say that this fic is my own interpretation of a variety of Christian themes that I have come across. My interpretation is simply one of many, but it is one that has provided me comfort. I hope, if you're reading this, that you found comfort, too.
> 
> I am also on tumblr at veganthranduil.


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